His Venom, My Vengeance (A Marriage in Crisis Revenge Romance #21)

1. utive Control

Chapter one

Executive Control

The steady, high-pitched beep of the heart monitor gnawed at the edge of my consciousness. A dull throb radiated from the back of my right hand, the skin pulled taut where a plastic IV line tethered me to the metal bedrail. I opened my eyes just a fraction, the lids dragging as if coated in sand.

“I can’t do this anymore, Simon,” Nina whispered, her voice cutting through the dark hospital room.

The sharp scent of rubbing alcohol smothered the air.

A faint blue glow from a streetlamp filtered through the plastic window blinds, striping the linoleum floor.

I kept my head perfectly still against the pillow.

Peering through the cage of my own eyelashes, I located the source of the whispering.

Ten feet away, standing near the window, were my husband and my lifelong best friend.

Nina had her hands pressed flat against the tailored wool of Simon’s chest. Simon’s arm wrapped securely around her waist, pulling the sleek fabric of her silk blouse flush against his body.

My tongue felt like abrasive cotton. I desperately needed to swallow.

I didn’t dare. The slightest movement would give me away.

If they saw it, the two people standing across the room would know I was awake.

I actively forced my chest to rise and fall in a slow, rhythmic drag, simulating the breathing of a heavily sedated woman.

“Looking at her, fluffing her pillows, pretending I give a shit,” Nina hissed, the smooth fabric shifting as she leaned closer to him. “How much longer do I have to play the ‘tragic best friend’?”

A sudden, sickening dread settled in my stomach.

The last six months made horrifying, vivid sense.

Nina constantly hovering at the house. Nina bringing meals.

Nina touching my arm and wiping my forehead with that tragic, supportive pout while I wasted away in my wheelchair. I thought she was my lifeline.

“Just until next Friday,” Simon replied. His voice was a calm, soothing murmur—the exact same tone he used when he spoon-fed me soup. “The proxy papers are drafted, and Lawrence is expecting us to sign. Keep your voice down. She might wake up.”

Nina tilted her chin up. Simon dipped his head, and my husband pulled my best friend into a long, aggressive kiss right in front of my bed.

A sharp, hot tightness gripped my chest. Finding out my marriage was a lie hurt, but the blatant disrespect of them flaunting it inside this sterile prison cell stripped away whatever dignity I had left.

They didn’t see me as a wife, or even a person.

I was just a broken object waiting to be discarded.

The heavy scent of Nina’s jasmine perfume drifted across the room, mixing with the sterile hospital alcohol.

I curled my fingers under the thick cotton blanket, making tight, trembling fists.

The harsh strain in my hands was the only thing keeping me perfectly still on the mattress.

I forced my chest to continue its slow, hollow rhythm, exhaling the stale air while a cold sweat broke out along the back of my neck.

Nina pulled back, exhaling a breath that sounded incredibly loud over the quiet hum of the ventilation system. “She won’t wake up. Look at her. She’s completely out of it.”

Simon stroked the side of her neck, his thumb resting right over her pulse. “I know. Just hold out for ten more days.”

Simon dropped his hand, stepping back from the embrace. The sole of his leather shoe made a muffled scuff against the linoleum floor. He reached up, casually rubbing the back of his neck as if they were discussing weekend dinner plans instead of my impending demise.

“I put the inhibitors in the blender every morning,” Simon murmured, his quiet voice barely carrying across the room. “It flawlessly mimics the degenerative motor disease, keeping her in that chair.”

A surge of hot, metallic bile rose in the back of my throat. I swallowed hard against the bitter taste, clamping my mouth shut to keep from crying out. My chest felt dangerously hollow. It took everything in me not to thrash against the hospital sheets and scream at him, but I kept my eyes closed.

He was poisoning me.

The fresh kale and apple smoothies flashed in my mind. Every single morning for the past six months, Simon insisted on making my breakfast. He would pour the slick green liquid into a tall glass, drop a metal straw inside, and stand right beside my wheelchair to watch me drink it.

My stomach churned into a tight knot at the memory of crying onto the shoulder of his tailored suit, sobbing in terror because my legs were inexplicably failing. My body wasn’t broken. The man I married was systematically paralyzing me.

“Drink up, Audrey,” his voice echoed in my mind from just two days ago, when he stood stroking my hair in our sunlit kitchen. “You need your strength to fight this. I’m right here.”

The sheer, terrifying ease of his lie made the room spin. He hadn’t just poisoned me; he had played the ‘devoted caregiver’ while watching me slowly lose the ability to walk.

Nina shifted her weight, leaning her hip against the windowsill. Her silhouette blocked a portion of the blue streetlight filtering through the blinds. She stared directly at my hospital bed, her face twisted in obvious disgust.

“And then what?” Nina asked, crossing her arms over her chest. “You promised me we’d ship her to the care facility on Monday. If I have to spend one more week in that house with her, I’m going to lose my mind.”

Hearing my best friend complain about the inconvenience of my presence felt surreal. She wore the expensive clothes my marketing agency paid for, drank the wine from my cellar, and now she wanted me locked away in a ward so she could play house.

Simon closed the small gap between them. He rested his hands on her arms, sliding his palms upward to grip her shoulders in a soothing gesture. Bending his head, he pressed a tender, reassuring kiss to her forehead.

“I promise,” Simon said. “We sign the proxy next Friday afternoon, and by Monday, she becomes the facility’s problem.”

The steady chirp of the heart monitor droned on, oblivious to the sudden, frantic racing of my pulse.

I had to consciously slow my breathing down, pulling the stale hospital air into my lungs and releasing it in a measured drag.

He intended to strip away my executive control, legally commit me to a care facility, and leave me there to rot.

Whatever lingering grief I felt burned away, leaving only a cold rage.

Under the thick hospital blankets, my clenched fists trembled.

I’ll die before I let you take my company.

The heavy hospital door clicked shut, the latch engaging with a sharp, metallic snap.

The second the sound echoed through the room, I dropped the sedated breathing.

I threw my left arm across my chest, grabbing the edge of the medical tape securing the IV line to my right hand.

Gripping the corner, I yanked upward. The adhesive peeled back, ripping the fine hairs from my skin in an abrasive sting.

The sharp pain anchored my focus against the panicked, rapid thud of my pulse in my ears.

“Come on. Move,” I muttered into the empty space, my voice a dry, painful rasp.

I reached across the mattress, my atrophied arm muscles straining against the cotton sheets. My fingers fumbled over the slick leather strap of my purse resting on the bedside table. I dragged the bag onto the bed, abandoning the strap to dig inside. My thumbs hit the cold glass of my smartphone.

The screen flared to life, casting a harsh glare across my face.

Squinting against the light, I swiped frantically to open my settings.

My hands shook so badly the smooth casing slipped against my skin and nearly dropped to the blankets.

I clamped both palms around the edges to steady it, my thumbs clumsy as I navigated to the blocked numbers list.

Owen Maddox.

A flush of humiliation burned the back of my neck.

I felt like an idiot. Three months ago, Owen had stood in my living room and bluntly warned me that my muscle degradation didn’t match the progression of any natural disease.

He told me to go to an independent clinic.

Instead, I had let my husband convince me otherwise.

“He’s incompetent, Audrey. You’re getting worse. I’m letting him go,” Simon’s calm, patronizing voice echoed in my memory, replaying the moment he fired the only person trying to save me.

I swallowed dryly, pushing past the crushing wave of shame, and tapped Unblock. Selecting his name, I opened a new message thread. My fingers trembled over the digital keyboard, forcing me to repeatedly hit backspace as I fumbled the letters.

I know why Simon fired you. I just heard everything. I know what he’s doing to me, and I need help.

I hit send, the swoosh of the outgoing message sounding deafening. I sat rigid against the pillows, staring at the screen while sweat trickled down my spine. Thirty agonizing seconds passed. A grey speech bubble finally appeared.

The silence in the room returned, stark and absolute. I kept my eyes locked on the glowing screen, my vision blurring at the edges as it became harder and harder to stay awake.

Every shadow near the window looked like Simon standing in the dark. Every squeak of a nurse’s rubber shoe in the distant hallway made my chest tighten with panic. I was convinced my husband had forgotten something and was walking back through the door to catch me conscious.